Descent
by wispykitty
Summary: Vincent's story from the beginning, and through Vincent - the story of BZRK.
1. Prologue

**Title** Descent  
**Characters** This is a story very much focused on Vincent. At the beginning it'll be heavy on Caligula and Grey McLure (with mentions of Lear), and will eventually include Nijinsky, Ophelia, Wilkes, Renfield, and Kerouac. There will also be a bit of AFGC, mostly Burnofsky, and eventually a little Bug Man. As it takes place before the book, there will be no Keats or Plath.  
**Summary** In short – Vincent's back story, and through that tale will come the back stories of other BZRK members. How did they all come to be involved in the group?  
**Author Notes**Obviously I own nothing and have no real knowledge of anything going on in Michael Grant's head regarding his characters. But I've taken notes from the book and combined them with information from the Death or Madness comics, and hope to produce something at least plausible. Having said that – let's begin.

* * *

"Michael," came the honeyed voice of his mother, "We need to talk, sweetie."

Those words again. Ones he couldn't put off with the promise of homework, because it was Friday and he had all weekend. Not that he really planned on doing it. Maybe he would. He hadn't decided yet. For now though he was lying on his bed playing Fallout 2, not because he liked it, but just because his friends were talking about it and he wanted to be able to join the conversation if he ever felt like it. Which he never really did, but that was beside the point. "Later," he said, hoping that she'd leave him be for now.

"No sweetie, we need to talk now," she replied, walking into his room to stand in between him and the screen, hoping to distract him.

Not that he cared. He'd just play the scene again later if she didn't leave him alone. "I'm busy," he said back, just because he wasn't in the mood to listen to her drone on about how worried she was about him. It's all she seemed to say lately.

"I'm really sorry sweetheart, but this can't wait." She walked over to the monitor and leaned down to unplug it.

He'd seen it coming a mile away, though, so he wasn't surprised. He looked up at her and noticed that she seemed bothered. "What?" He asked, hoping she'd just get on with it so they could get this over with and she could leave him alone.

"I'm sorry for unplugging your game," she said, almost as though she'd been hoping for him to get angry about it.

He just shrugged. "You didn't unplug the game, mom. Just the monitor."

An annoyed look crossed over her face and she took a deep breath. "Well, Michael, your father and I are growing concerned about your recent behaviour," she started, and he knew where this was going.

It was probably going to be long. "Sorry," he said, though he wasn't, because he couldn't help the way he'd been acting lately. He'd tried explaining it all to her, but she never really seemed to get it.

"I wish you'd tell me what's going on with you," she said as her face softened again and she walked over to sit next to him on his bed. "You know you can talk to me, right? Or your dad? About anything at all," she said, and he could have quoted her word for word because it seemed to have become her mantra as of late. _Talk to me; talk to us. Talk to me; talk to us._

"Yep," he replied, short because what else was there to say? His parents didn't get it.

"Well, your father and I have been talking," she said, her face a concerned but wary mask. "We want you to speak with a therapist, Michael. We've been talking to Doctor Rosenthall, and he agrees with us that you seem to be exhibiting signs of depression. He has a colleague he thinks you should speak to." She stared at him then with tightly pinched lips, as though she were waiting for him to explode and fight it.

"Whatever," he replied, not really caring. If it got his parents off his back, he'd talk to this therapist. He didn't think he was depressed, just misunderstood, but he'd given up trying to explain it to his parents.

"So, you don't mind?" She prompted him, seeming surprised that he hadn't said no. Seeming shocked, really.

"Whatever," he repeated, because he just couldn't be bothered to say anything else. "Can I go back to my game now?"

She didn't answer, and he noticed her eyes brim with tears. Oh no. Not tears. Whenever his mom started crying it tended to go on and on into the night, and he really didn't feel like listening to it. But this time she just nodded and stood up, hesitating for a moment before leaning down to draw him into a hug. "We love you very much, Michael," she said, her voice choked. "We just want you to be happy."

And then she left and he was alone. He stood up, trudging over to plug the monitor back in, though he didn't really feel like playing the game again. But that was his problem, when you got down to the heart of the matter.

He didn't feel like doing _anything._

He understood why his parents thought he was depressed, but he wasn't. There was a girl at his school who was depressed, Nikki Rutledge, and she'd shown him the scars on her legs from where she used to cut herself with a straight razor. She said she did it to let the pain out that she was holding inside. He thought it was kind of stupid, but it seemed to work for her, so whatever. But there was a difference between them. Even though she said she was depressed, there were still things she enjoyed, like Doritos, and listening to "My Own Prison" by Creed. She said the only time she ever felt alive was when she was listening to the song or when she was cutting herself.

Michael didn't care for music, though. She'd tried to get him to listen to a bunch of songs, but they all sounded the same to him, and he didn't find any of them interesting. They were just noise. And he didn't really care for food, either. You could put carrots or chips in front of him, and unlike every other kid his age he'd eat the carrots, not because he liked them, and not because he didn't like the chips, but rather because he didn't care for either of them, but he knew that carrots were better for you, so he figured he might as well go with the healthy option. Unless his friends were around, then he'd eat the chips, just so he wouldn't have to explain himself to them.

He hadn't tried cutting himself yet, though sometimes he was tempted, just to see what it was like. He just figured that his parents were already suspicious enough, the last thing he needed was for his mom to see him cutting lines into his skin. She'd probably ship him off to a mental hospital or something.

Not that it mattered, though, because there was nothing for him here. He was just existing. Maybe crazy people would be interesting? More interesting than his parents, at least, or the other kids at school.

He knew there was something wrong with him. His parents thought it was depression, but he knew it wasn't, because being depressed meant that you were sad, and he wasn't sad.

He wasn't anything.

* * *

"Hello, Michael," the woman said, a warm smile on her lips.

"Hey," he replied, hoping this would be quick.

"So, your parents want you to talk to me because they're worried about you," she began, smiling a little conspiratorially now, "so I have to apologize in advance if my questions seem boring or annoying. I'm sure you're probably tired of your mom and dad bugging you all the time, huh?"

He wasn't sure what she was going for, if she wanted to act like his friend or something. He shrugged. "Kinda."

She nodded. "Well I'll try not to be annoying. I wanted to start by asking you a few questions to get to know you better."

"Okay," he replied, wondering if he should give her weird answers. He'd been thinking more and more lately about going to a mental hospital. It was either that or cutting himself, and he still wasn't keen on bloodying up his bedroom.

"What's your favourite music?" she asked, leaning forward a little.

"I don't really listen to music," he said, which was true.

She didn't seem to buy it. "Come on, who doesn't listen to music? You look like a rock guy to me," she said, tapping her pen against the pad of paper in her lap. "What do you think of Korn?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Maybe a pop guy? N Sync or Backstreet Boys?" She asked with a grin, winking at him, like she thought she was being funny.

He shrugged again. "I don't know."

She paused then, looking at him in a strange kind of manner. "What about TV? You watch any shows?" When he said nothing she prompted again. "Not even The Simpsons or South Park?"

He shook his head. "My friends all like South Park, and I watched it once, but," he paused then, shrugging again. "I just don't watch TV."

She pursed her lips then, looking at him with an odd expression. "What about video games?"

"I play video games," he answered, without going into specifics.

"Which ones are your favourite?" She asked. If she was pleased to have found a topic they could actually discuss, she wasn't showing it.

"I don't really have any favourites," he replied, "I just play whatever."

"What are you playing right now?" She asked, pen ready to jot down titles.

"Fallout 2," he said, "And Metal Gear Solid."

"So you like violent action games then?" She said with a grin, as though she wasn't judging him for it - though he was sure that she was.

"No," he replied. "I didn't say I like them. I just play them."

"Hmm," she studied him for a moment before writing something down. "Interesting choice of words. What do you like, Michael?"

"Nothing," he said honestly. "I don't really like anything."

She nodded, as though she'd found some kind of answer. "Do you have a favourite food?"

He watched her writing, wondering what she was putting to paper. "No," he answered.

"If you had to pick something to eat, what would you pick?" She asked, still writing.

He waited to see how long she was going to write for, not answering until she looked up at him. "What are you writing?" He asked, not because he was worried, but just because he was curious.

"Just some notes," she said. "What food would you pick?"

He thought for a moment, trying to think of an honest answer to give her. "I don't know, something spicy I guess."

"And why is that?" She asked, watching him again.

He shrugged, unsure of what to say. "I don't know, I guess because food is usually boring, and at least when it's spicy I can feel it."

She nodded at his answer and jotted down one final note before standing up. "Alright Michael, thank you for your answers. Why don't you go sit outside and ask your parents to come in, I just want to talk to them for a few minutes."

He stood up and went to the door, still curious, but not curious enough to ask again.

* * *

That had been two months ago, and life had changed drastically in the days since. The woman had told his parents that it sounded like something called anhedonia, which was the name of this condition that basically meant you couldn't feel happy about anything. It made sense when she mentioned it the first time, because he couldn't recall ever feeling happy before.

But then she'd talked to his parents more, and they'd all somehow gotten it into their heads that he was doing drugs.

Ridiculous. He'd smoked a cigarette once (and only once) but he'd never done drugs. He didn't even know anyone who did drugs. But that didn't matter, because that nutty woman had told his parents that there were only two causes of anhedonia – drug use, and psychosis.

At this stage he was willing to go back in time and plead psychosis.

His parents were convinced that he'd been doing drugs, so convinced that they'd made him change schools, to "get away from that bad crowd" he'd been hanging around with.

Perhaps the worst thing, though, was that they'd taken away his Playstation. Now he had nothing to occupy his time, nothing except school work and forced socialization with his parents (mostly his mom, because his dad worked a lot). He wasn't allowed to go anywhere except to school, and his mom regularly went through his things. She never found anything, but that didn't seem to stop her. Life had already been a drag before, but now it was pure torture.

* * *

It had almost seemed like a bit of a birthday present when, two years later, they'd decided to check out his head. Scans and analysis, x-ray upon x-ray, and lo and behold – drugs were finally ruled out! There was some kind of lesion on some part of his brain, he never remembered what it was called because he never really cared. All that mattered was that his parents had finally given up on the drugs thing, and had given him back his video games. He had two years worth of them to catch up on.

But it wasn't enough for his mom. She was convinced that there had to be some kind of a cure, there had to be some way to make him happy. That was when a business colleague had introduced Michael's father to a rich scientist, Grey McLure, who was doing some kind of research on biotechnology.

Michael first met Grey when he was almost fifteen. The man hadn't been what he'd expected – which had been a stuffy, boring old man who probably wore flannel suits and mismatched socks. Grey McLure was interesting. He'd actually seemed legitimately interested in what Michael went through on a daily basis, always asking for another example, another explanation. Every time Michael told him that it wasn't something you could understand unless you went through it, Grey agreed with it, but asked for updates anyway. And Michael gave them, because Grey was the first person who'd ever seemed genuinely interested and concerned.

Grey didn't approach it the way his mother did. He wasn't out looking to make Michael happy. He wasn't hoping to give his life meaning. He just wanted to _fix_ him, to fix his brain. It wasn't personal, Michael understood that. It was all for science, and really he thought it was better that way. There was less stress involved when it was impersonal. Less expectation, so less disappointment when it would eventually fail.

* * *

He was sixteen when his parents died. Car crash, on their way home after dropping him off at McLure Industries for another round of tests. He wasn't told until after testing, of course, but once they did tell him Grey asked if he wouldn't mind of they ran a different test, to see if grief and loss could point the scientists in the right direction.

He'd agreed, because really – what else was he going to do? He'd felt when he'd been told about his parents, not exactly sad, but hollow. It was probably shock, but at the same time maybe not. Maybe it was the anhedonia alone, developing and inhibiting his feelings of pain and sorrow and sadness? He'd been reading up on the condition and heard it was possible, especially when people suffered so much and tried to block those feelings from surfacing.

Then again, he tried to think about his parents, how he'd felt about them. It had never really been love, because he wasn't capable of it. Of course he'd told them he loved them, but it was always hollow. His therapist had once asked him how he'd feel if his mother died, and he'd told her that he didn't know. Because he hadn't. He'd told her that he knew it would be bad, because she fed him and bought him things and took care of him, and if she was gone then who would look after him, since his father was away so often? She asked him if he'd be sad, and he'd guessed that he would be, but even then he hadn't really understood what sad meant. Not in the sense of what other people thought sad was.

He thought about Nikki, how she used to cry all the time. She said it was because she was sad. Michael couldn't remember a day in his life when he'd cried because he was sad. He'd cried a few times when he got hurt, but that was because of physical pain. But sadness? His experience of sadness was more of a deeply hollow feeling inside, which was of course how he felt most of the time, hollow, but it was a deeper hollow, more empty...

But this was the first time he could ever remember feeling worried about himself. He'd always known he was different from the world, but he'd never been that bothered by it. But now he kind of was, because his parents had just died and he didn't feel anything. There was nothing.

Nikki had killed herself, he remembered hearing. Slit her wrists in the bathtub. Stereotypical teenage suicide.

Michael looked at his wrists, wondering what it would feel like, slicing into his own flesh. Would it make him feel better? What if that was the key?

Grey had offered to help him, since he was on his own. Told him that even though his scientists hadn't been able to fix him yet, that he still wanted to help him. Still wanted to try and figure everything out. Told him that maybe, if he wanted, he could work for Grey as well. It would be his choice, of course, but maybe, since he was so adept at video games, maybe he'd want to try out that new biotechnology they were working on? The biots? Those things that had been working on his brain, trying to fix it, trying to make him think and feel and react like a normal person.

Michael wasn't sure. Maybe.

Then again, maybe he'd be better off like Nikki. Dead. Because what was there to live for when you felt nothing? What was the point?

He wasn't sure. He'd think about it.

* * *

Grey was not happy when he heard. He was bothered and upset – not with Michael, of course, because it wasn't his fault. He was young and impressionable and looking for purpose, after all. Purpose Grey had wanted to give him, but had hesitated, because Michael was young and he'd still been hoping that maybe – just _maybe_ Michael would figure it out himself. Maybe he'd create his own purpose.

It was all Lear.

Of course it was partially his own fault too, because he let Lear have access to everything, all of McLure's files, and of course when Lear read about this teenager who felt nothing and spent all his time playing video games, of course Lear had pounced.

Better to get the boy before the Armstrongs did, Lear had told him, and Grey had agreed with that much, at least.

But Michael was different now. Grey could see it, the way his eyes were still adjusting, the way he'd sit there sometimes and zone out, get that faraway look in his eyes, and Grey would wonder where he was. Was he in his own head, or someone else? What kind of training did he even have? Grey wanted to help him, wanted to claim him back from Lear and plead with him not to fight Lear's war. To work for him instead, to help other people. Maybe saving people's lives would give him purpose.

But Lear had him, and now Michael was gone.

In his place – Vincent.

But no matter how much the boy pleaded with him, Grey still called him Michael. Would always call him Michael, because he didn't want him to forget himself. Didn't want him to forget that he was a person, and not a machine.


	2. Chapter 1

"Hello Michael," a smooth voice said, soft as velvet, friendly and welcoming.

Michael turned to face the voice and had nothing to say in response, for the visual that accompanied the vocals was nothing at all like what he'd imagined. An older guy, dressed in purple. What the fuck?

"You may refer to me as Caligula," he said as he took a seat across from the young man, hands clasping on his lap. "We're going to have to choose a new name for you."

Michael's face scrunched a bit in confusion, curious and surprised at this new person. He'd been expecting someone else, someone a bit more... Scientific?

"I'll let you decide what you'd like, though I will say that those of us already playing the game take on monikers that pay homage to the crazy," the older man said, "Real or fictional, doesn't really make a difference. Caligula for me, though I have no idea if you'd be familiar with the man. It's been a long time since I took a history class."

Michael was too confused to respond to the comment, his eyes still taking in the look of the guy. Caligula. Sounded weird, but he supposed it fit. Weird name for a weird guy.

"Are you familiar with Shakespeare? No idea when he's taught in high school, if he even still is. None of that Romeo and Juliet crap either, I'm talking stories of real psychosis here. King Lear. Heard of him?"

Michael narrowed his eyes at the man, his naturally downturned lips pulling back further. "Who are you?" He asked, wondering how this guy could possibly work at McLure. Grey had said nothing about crazy people.

"Caligula," the purple-clad man answered before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I'm here to extend an offer to you, Michael. Perhaps I should have explained that before making assumptions."

"What kind of offer?" Michael asked, definitely thinking that this guy could not possibly really work for McLure. How had he gotten in, then?

"Have you heard of Nexus Humanus, Michael?" Caligula asked him, and Michael shrugged.

"A bit," he replied, because he did remember overhearing his father and Grey talking about it once. He hadn't heard much, but what he had heard had sounded negative. They were some kind of cult.

"It's an organization devoted to creating a society full of happy people," Caligula started to explain. "I won't bother going into specifics, but to make a long story short – they want to warp the minds of the masses, Michael. They want to turn the human race into a hive culture, like bees. Everyone with the same thoughts, all happy and positive, but with no free will. No choice. You do what you're told with a smile and a nod, and that's life. A hive."

"What?" Michael replied, more confused than he'd been before.

"Confused? Don't worry kid, you're not alone," Caligula replied, before his phone buzzed with a message. "Give me a second," he said, sitting back in his chair and tapping away on his phone. Michael waited patiently, trying to make sense of what he'd been told.

Caligula stopped tapping then and put the phone away, leaning forward again. "Tell me Michael, what's more important? Freedom or happiness?"

That was an easy answer for him, at least. "Freedom."

"And what makes you say that?" Caligula asked with a smile.

"Because I can't feel happiness."

Caligula grinned and nodded, seemingly pleased. "And that is precisely why we want you. You like video games, huh?" He asked, and Michael stared at him blankly. "I hear you're very good at them, you've beaten anyone who takes you on."

Michael nodded, still confused. "Yeah, so?"

"So," Caligula began, "This is all one big video game, what we do. I take it you're familiar with Mr. McLure's biot research?"

Michael's eyes narrowed. So this guy really did work for McLure? He found that hard to believe. "Yeah, somewhat."

"Mr. McLure has been trying to fix your brain for a while now, hasn't he? Have you ever seen how it's done?"

Michael shook his head. He'd heard a vague explanation, about tiny organisms created from human DNA mixed with other things. Grey had, of course, made him sign a confidentiality agreement before he'd told him anything, and he'd only told him because he'd asked. "I just know they were in my head fixing whatever was wrong."

"Yes," Caligula nodded. "Except that they haven't been able to fix you yet. This is all old news to you and I, though, so I'll move on. We have reason to believe that Nexus Humanus is being funded by two men, Charles and Benjamin Armstrong. They own the Armstrong Fancy Gifts Corporation, but it's really just a cover, all those gift shops and snowglobes. They've been developing their own technology, nanobots, that work similarly to McLure's biots, except the nanobots are robots."

Michael nodded, though he was still lost. What exactly was Caligula trying to get at, here?

"These nanobots would be used to re-wire the brains of the people," Caligula said, "They'd be used to control the people. You fancy the idea of someone shuffling around in your head, controlling you? Of course you'd be a terrible recruit for Nexus, given that you can't be happy. But you'd make one hell of a twitcher."

"A what?" Michael asked, wondering if he'd heard right. A twitcher?

"Someone who controls the nanobots," Caligula explained, "someone who goes into the heads of other people and rearranges their thoughts."

Michael was silent at the comment, mostly because he didn't know what to say in response. But suddenly he had an idea. "Is Grey trying to stop them?" He asked, wondering if that was it. Grey had offered him the opportunity to work for him, to work with the biots. Was this it?

"No, not actively," Caligula replied, "Lear is the one bent on stopping them. Grey McLure just funds Lear's research, and his movement."

"Who's Lear?" Michael asked, crossing his arms over his chest. This was getting weirder by the second.

"Rule number one, Michael – don't ask questions about Lear. Not if you want to live," Caligula added with a shrug.

Michael studied the old man's face, wondering again what his purpose was. "Is Lear trying to recruit me?" He asked, feeling that maybe he was on to something.

"Bingo," Caligula replied.

But Michael was still confused. "What does he want from me?"

"He's building up a group, slowly, because this isn't the sort of thing you rush into." Caligula paused then, regarding Michael keenly.

The teenager couldn't take the silence. "Why me?" He asked, curious.

Caligula smiled, and his smile was all teeth, sharp and pointy, and Michael felt wary all of a sudden. "Because you would make the perfect biot soldier, and because you're already against the Nexus Humanus shit. Plus, like I said, this whole biot control thing is like a video game, so gamer kids are the main targets. If we don't recruit you, you can bet your ass the Armstrongs will come for you, and they're not in the business of taking no for an answer."

"Why you over them?" He asked, looking for more of an answer than just "they want to take over the world".

"Because you owe Grey McLure, Michael," Caligula answered, and sat back in his chair.

"He wants me to work for him, do medical research stuff," Michael said, remembering that conversation. "He probably thinks it'll give me a sense of purpose, or something."

"Not probably, Michael, but definitely. But you and I both know, kid, that helping other people won't mean shit to you. You're not a compassionate person."

Michael frowned, because what Caligula said was true. "I don't mean to be this way-"

"But you are. Your talents would be wasted, Michael, fighting disease in the body. But fighting crazy guys intent on turning the world into robots? If they take away your freedom of thought, Michael, what would you have left?" Caligula waited for him to reply, sat still as a stone, not even blinking.

"Nothing," Michael answered, and he knew it was true. Free will iwas/i all he had in life.

"Then you'll join us?" Caligula asked, and Michael nodded. "Good. A word of warning, though. The process is not going to be pleasant."

Michael swallowed hard around the lump in his throat while Caligula grinned. He thought suddenly of Nikki. With Nexus Humanus turning everyone into happy robots, there'd be no more suicide. No more depression.

But there'd be no more freedom. No place for people like him, who couldn't be happy.

Hadn't he thought of killing himself before? What had stopped him? He had nothing to live for. No pleasure. But this, maybe. This could be something to live for. This could be purpose. Like Caligula had said, he wasn't a compassionate person. He wasn't wired that way. But he wasn't callous either, and maybe, just maybe, this could give him something to live for.

This could be interesting. It might not make him happy, but it could keep him interested, and maybe that would be enough.

Maybe.

It was two hours later and he was sitting in one of the labs, an older man in a lab coat preparing a syringe. Caligula had made him watch a video, and he'd explained what would happen, what he'd expect. Michael hadn't been sure if he'd believed all of it, because it still seemed rather farfetched. He mostly couldn't believe that he'd actually be seeing two realities at once through his eyes.

It seemed crazy. Then again...

He fidgeted in his chair, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that he wasn't too acquainted with. He wondered if he was nervous. He'd never really felt nervous before, because nerves were usually associated with anxiety and fear, and he'd never really had anything to fear before. When you couldn't feel pleasure, it gave you a rather skewed acceptable level of pain, so much so that unless you were right in the middle of physical torture you'd never know enough to be afraid.

Was he afraid now? Caligula had told him that once he went through with this, there would be no turning back. Once his biots were born, that was it. He had them for life, and if he lost them, he'd go mad.

No maybe. No possibility. Only certainty.

He told him about McLure's first biot tester, a man by the name of Leonard Farmer. He'd lost a biot one time while working on Grey's wife, trying to destroy her brain tumor. He hadn't been the same afterwards, still able to function, but distracted. Not quite himself.

Michael had asked him what had happened to him, because Caligula had stopped then.

"AFGC got him," had been the answer, "Infested him with nanobots and destroyed him, drove him insane."

And now he was in the lab, down to his last minute to back out. His last minute to go back to a normal life, but a life worth nothing. What to do?

"Last chance kid," Caligula said, standing by the door, arms crossed.

Michael said nothing, his eyes on the scientist. What to do?

"You just want to keep on existing, with no purpose, or do you want to do something with your life?"

Yes or no?

"I'll take your silence as a yes. Jab him, Pound."

It was over in a second – but it lasted so much longer. It was just a simple jab to remove a miniscule chunk of flesh, and he stared at the swell of blood afterwards. The stab and pull had been nearly electrifying, a sharp jolt to his mind that he'd never quite felt before.

And it had given him something he'd always craved without being able to put a name to it – the exhiliration of pain. His heart had sped up, his breath had caught in his throat, and suddenly he was wishing that he had tried out Nikki Rutledge's method of coping all those years ago. It was intense and shocking and felt surprisingly _good_ - or at least as close to good as he could imagine.

He stared in open-eyed shock at his arm, watched as the blood welled up and finally broke, sending a tiny rivulet of it down his arm. He watched it with fascinated eyes, surprised at how it had felt. Had he found the real answer? Would he do it again, jab himself and rip chunks of skin away?

"Is it okay if I give him this, Pound?" He heard Caligula ask, though he wasn't about to look and see what the old man was talking about. His eyes remained focused on the blood.

"Sure, just throw it out afterwards, don't bother cleaning it."

Suddenly something was thrust in his lap, and Michael looked up then, up into the smirking face of Caligula, and suddenly that odd feeling in the pit of his stomach came back, the one he'd never really felt before today, and his eyes went from Caligula to the scientist, back to Caligula, then down at the metal bowl in his hands.

"What's this for?" He asked, as the feeling in his stomach intensified.

"How long?" Caligula asked Pound.

"I'd say another ten seconds," Pound replied, turning to face the pair. "5, 4, 3, 2, 1-"

And suddenly Michael pitched forward off his seat, the bowl clattering in front of him into luckily the right position as his stomach hurled its contents up through him, right up his esophagus and out his mouth and into the bowl.

It was the first time in his life that he'd ever thrown up. He'd heard people talk about it before, but he'd never experienced it himself, not until now, and he thought he could see something in the bowl, something that looked oddly like bugs...

"What the fuck?" He said with a shaky voice, feeling the urge to be sick again.

"Finally seeing them, are you?" Caligula asked with a grin.

"You did show him the video and explain the process, didn't you?" Pound asked, and Caligula nodded.

That was enough to remind Michael of what he was seeing. Of what he was _seeing_ - "Oh my god!" He yelled, falling back onto his butt, staring ahead in wide eyed horror. "Holy fuck," he said, "What the fuck is that?" He yelled, even though he knew, because he'd just seen this in the video, Caligula had just explained it to him.

"What you're experiencing is completely normal," Pound said, "It happens to everyone."

"What the fuck!" Michael yelled again, watching as it grew in his eyes, as it formed, as it looked around, as it found its twin – "Holy shit it has my eyes!" He wailed, completely forgetting the bowl and simply leaning to the side, throwing up again.

"You're doing a terrible job Caligula," Pound said, "And I certainly hope you have every intention of cleaning that up, because I sure as hell will not."

"He'll clean it," Caligula said, pulling out his phone. "He made the mess."

"Ever the compassionate soul," Pound said, before crouching down and opening the door to one of the cabinets. He pulled out a roll of paper towl, holding his breath as he walked over to the kid and thrust it at him. "Here," he said, offering the roll.

Michael looked up at the face of the scientist, panting hard now at the sheer horror in his eyes. He was seeing three things at once – the scientist, the creature, and then suddenly a second creature! He tore a few sheets of the paper towel off the roll, wiping at his mouth, feeling bile rise again.

How could they do this to people? It was terrifying! Sure he'd seen the video, he thought he'd been prepared. But this was something entirely different. This was madness.

"They look like me," he whispered, his hands shaking.

"They have your dna," Caligula said, before leaning down and laying a hand on the top of his head. "You'll be fine in a few minutes, Michael. This is all normal, just like I explained."

"I thought that was all bullshit!" Michael yelled, because he had.

"Well, look at that. The kid has the capacity for certain emotions after all," Caligula said with a grin.

And Michael realized with sudden fascination that he was right. He was feeling something, and it was different, unusual. There was no way it could be pleasure, no way it could be happiness. But it was _something_, and after a lifetime of nothing, he was glad to receive it.

Caligula's phone rang then, and the older man stood up to answer it.

"He's in," was all he said, to which there came only a one word reply.

_Good._

"Thank you Pound," Caligula said, "I'll take him from here." He held his hand out, and the scientist placed the crèche in his outstretched palm.

"Don't forget to clean up that mess," Pound said, "I'm serious. I'm not touching it, and I'm not working in here with it either."

Caligula sighed before walking back to Michael, reaching out with his foot to roll the paper towel back to the kid. "Clean up after yourself, would you?"

Michael looked up at him, staring in shock. "What have you done to me?" He asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Clean," Caligula said, "And then we'll get on with your training."

And so Michael reached over to take the paper towel, mechanically wiping up where he'd missed the bowl and been sick on the floor. But he was still focused on his biots, his _children_ as Caligula had jokingly referred to them earlier. The shock was wearing off, and the closest thing he'd ever experienced to excitement was setting in. He had purpose. He had a future.

He had something, finally, after ever only knowing nothing.


	3. Chapter 2

They'd left McLure Industries, travelling by taxi a few blocks away, Michael silently ensconced in his own little world, seeing his biots through their own eyes. He was tempted to make comments, to verbally express everything he was seeing, but Caligula had told him that there was to be no talking during the taxi ride. So Michael kept his mouth shut, but his eyes were alive, expressive and telling.

Caligula, on the other hand, was constantly alert, eyes scanning the area, watching as cars pulled up close or drew in behind, taking in the sight of every passerby on the street when the taxi was stopped. He doubted anyone from AFGC was around, but you just never knew. Of course, having spent years working for them, he knew better than most how to detect TFD - "Tourists From Denver".

But for every TFD AFGC employed, there was always the chance of a real goon lurking around the corner, someone who stood out so much it hurt, but yet someone who stood out a little too much to be an operative. That had been his role. The obvious villain, the man with lasers for eyes – the modern day Rambo. Sure, he may not have strode around town dressed in fatigues and carrying a machine gun, but he had that certain something – that danger about him, that made people take notice.

But even goons had their limits, and he'd turned from AFGC. He'd thought for sure it would have been the death of him, but luck had appeared to favour him and he'd escaped fate. But still he wondered what had come of the kids – Joani and Aaron Carpenter. He'd delivered them to their mother, emptied his bank account so the woman could take them away and start new lives somewhere else. Not that anywhere was beyond the grasp of AFGC, but better not to stay where they knew you lived.

As for him – he'd checked himself into the nearest hotel with what little money he had left and had robbed a liquor store for booze, because he'd been certain he'd be dead by sun up. Not that it mattered, because in the end he'd done the right thing by saving those kids, and he'd redeemed himself.

But the person who came knocking on his door that night had not been who he'd expected, and he wasn't dead by sun up. On the contrary – he was feeling more alive than he'd fooled himself into thinking while working for AFGC. He'd sat with Lear and Grey McLure for hours, discussing the threat that the Armstrong twins represented, and discussing what should be done about it.

He'd had no interest in the biots, of course, because he was far too old for that sort of nonsense. But he could provide security in the macro, and he knew the ins and outs of AFGC and its security force, AmericaStrong. He could help.

And now he was shuttling this sixteen year old kid – Michael (for now, at least) to the newly established BZRK New York headquarters. Granted, he was the only one who stayed there at the moment. The kid would be Lear's first American operative. Maybe he should have felt bad about damning a sixteen year old to this battle, to this life – but Lear had chosen well. This kid had nothing to live for anyway. Might as well give him something.

Caligula glanced over at him, watching as he sat still, a faraway look in his eyes, like he was lost. Caligula knew better. He could already see it in the boy's eyes – there was a spark there now, where before there had been nothing. He was engaged. That much was a gift to someone like him. Give water to a man dying of thirst, and he was yours for life. Likewise – give a man purpose who'd been living as a shadow, and he was one with the cause. He knew that much from personal experience.

They pulled up to the destination and Caligula paid the taxi driver before nudging Michael to get out. The boy slid soundlessly from the car and stood on the sidewalk waiting, his eyes looking at the car but not really seeing it. Caligula waited until the driver pulled away, his eyes looking around the street, taking in every person in the vicinity. Of course it was still another two blocks to the real destination, but he'd avoid a tail now if he had to.

"Come on," he said, grabbing Michael's elbow and pulling him along. "Pay attention to the here and now, kid. You'll have time for quiet contemplation later."

Michael was a bit startled as the man grabbed him, but quickly snapped out of the trance his biots had on him. It was so weird, seeing two realities at once! Three, really, though two were mirror images of each other. His vision was divided, compartmentalized like windows on a computer. He tried to make the biots view smaller, concentrating solely on the sidewalk in front of him. He kept up with the man called Caligula, stayed by his side while avoiding people around them. It was a little tricky, dealing with the multiple views, but that was mostly because he wanted so badly to ignore what was in front of him and concentrate on the biots.

"Where are we going?" He asked, wondering if he'd even get an answer.

"Home," Caligula answered, no further explanation. Michael didn't ask for elaboration, just kept up beside the older man, dodging people who almost seemed to be trying to get in his way.

"So, I have a question," Michael started to ask, but was hushed by Caligula.

"Not here," he answered, "Wait until we're home." So they walked another block, and Michael was surprised when Caligula suddenly pulled open the door to a greasy hole in the wall diner. "After you," the man said, glancing around after Michael went in through the door, obviously on the look out.

Michael stood inside the restaurant, interested enough to leave his biots to the side for now. What were they doing in some scuzzy, dirty place like this? He looked expectantly at Caligula, wondering (not for the last time) what he'd gotten himself into. But Caligula said nothing, just brushed past him down the cramped space, heading to the back. Michael followed in silence, confused when Caligula walked into what was obviously a storage room.

But though his mind raced with questions, he still said nothing.

At the back of the room was another door, and Caligula pulled this one open. He waited until Michael followed him in, closing and bolting the door shut after the kid. "Here we are," he said, walking further into the room and taking off his jacket, throwing it over the back of a chair. There wasn't much in the way of furniture, just a table and four chairs. The bulbs in the ceiling lamps had no shades, and the walls looked like they could use a good scrubbing, followed by a coat of paint (maybe two, to be on the safe side).

Michael stood in the middle of it all, confused and curious. "So, is this home?" He asked, eyes on Caligula.

The man nodded, sweeping an arm around dramatically. "All of it," he replied, "I hope you like scrubbing walls, kid, cause you can see this place needs a good cleaning."

Michael frowned, but said nothing in reply. He walked over to the table, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting. "Can I see them?" He asked, knowing that the older man had the crèche that held his biots.

Caligula exhaled, still feeling just fractionally bad about all of this. But then he reached his hand into the pocket on his shirt and drew out the little white case. He placed it on the table in front of Michael, very aware that there was still a lot of work to do. Funny that even though he had zero experience with a biot, he was still expected to teach the kid.

"Be careful, it's been in the darkness for a bit now, so the bright light might hurt your eyes," he said by way of warning, before pressing a button to release the lid. He couldn't help but grin a little when he saw Michael clamp a hand over his face.

"Even when I close my eyes, I still see," he replied, opening them slowly to look down into the device. "Why can't I see them?" He asked, having expected the biots to be at least a few inches in size by now.

Caligula smiled. "You can't see them with the naked eye," he replied, "Too small. Just put your finger out, you'll see yourself."

Michael did just that, and even though he knew what to expect he still found his body dodging out of the way as his finger came closer, confusing one reality for another. "Fuck, this is weird," he said quietly, sitting back up in his chair and moving his finger closer again, remembering that what he was seeing was from the perspective of the biots. Which were so small that he couldn't even see them...

"You can make them move," Caligula started to explain, "Just by thinking. Why don't you try it out? Maybe even climb up on your own finger, if you can handle it."

Michael nodded, though he'd pushed his own visuals to the wayside for the moment, so it was almost like he was listening to someone through a speaker, because even though Caligula was there in front of him he wasn't seeing him.

Well, he was, but he wasn't focusing on him, so it was almost like he wasn't seeing him.

"Is that really what my finger looks like?" He said in awe, hunching over the table a little, leaning on his hand.

"What does it look like?" Caligula asked, genuinely curious. He'd heard Pound complain about the visuals often enough, but the old Indian man never really did give him any distinct visuals to think of.

"Like another planet," Michael said, his voice tinged with utter bewilderment and fascination. "It's like, if I didn't know it was my finger, and you asked me what I was looking at, I'd never guess. I think I'm looking at the ridges in the skin that make a fingerprint, because all I see are walls of flesh, well I think it's flesh. It's pink."

Caligula sat back in his chair and just watched Michael, fascinated by his fascination. "If you think your finger is interesting, just wait until you get in the eye."

Michael's lips twisted into a frown at that point, just the way Caligula expected they would. "What am I going in the eye for?" He asked.

"Because it's the gateway to the brain, kid. That or the ear, and from what I've heard, you do not want to go into the ear unless you have no other choice." He grinned and watched as Michael just shrugged and went back to exploring his finger. "Are you hungry? I'm going to go pick something up from downstairs."

"Sure," Michael replied, "Get me whatever, I don't really have any preference when it comes to food unless it's spicy. I doubt a diner does spicy, though."

"I doubt it does, but we'll see. I'll be back in a bit. Even though I don't think it likely, I must reiterate that for the time being, you are not to leave this apartment without my authorization, understood?"

Michael nodded, though Caligula was right. He had no intention of going anywhere at the moment. "Sure thing, mom."

Caligula couldn't help but chuckle. He hadn't taken Michael for the type to crack a joke.

Stepping out of the diner, Caligula glanced around the street, first to his left, then to his right. Seeing only the typical scum on the street of this neighbourhood he took off to the right, heading for a nearby Indian place that offered take-away. He wasn't really feeling like anything other than a sandwich at the moment, but he'd decided to acquiesce to Michael's odd dietary preferences for his first meal as a member of BZRK. It seemed only fitting.

He crossed the street and pulled out his phone, typing a message to Lear.

Kid's doing well, noticed improvement. Definitely fascinated with his children.

He slid the phone back into his pocket as he stepped through the door of the grimy little place, the spices hitting his nostrils like an open flame. He hoped the place offered something as bland as possible for him. He stepped up to the counter, eyes resting on the small man behind the cash register wearing a grimy apron.

"Can I help you, sir?" The man asked, his accent thick enough to sound legit.

"I need two meals for take out. Make one of them the spiciest thing you have, and make the other the mildest." The man smiled and nodded. "One phall chicken, and one butter chicken, coming up," he said before heading for the grill. Caligula went to a nearby seat and lowered himself down into it, eyes looking further back into the place. There were a few tables toward the back, two of them occupied. One was a mother with three children, and the other were two men discussing something rather heatedly. Caligula kept his eyes on them for a moment before looking to the door.

Grey often told him he was overbearingly paranoid – and coming from a billionaire, that sometimes made Caligula second guess himself. But he'd seen things Grey hadn't, he'd done things the other one still didn't know about. He had every reason to be paranoid. His paranoia is what kept him alive. And now he had Michael to worry about – to care for if he was willing to go that far.

Maybe he'd leave the caring part to Grey. All of Caligula's compassion was being used up on ordering Indian for the kid, after all.

His phone buzzed then with a message and the older man reached for it, flipping it open, reading Lear's reply. Good. I want him exploring the eye by tomorrow at the latest. Grey has offered to help him study the brain map, but I want him looking at anatomy images tonight if possible. Pound is in England for a week, but when he returns I'll have him teach the kid how to fight in the nano. Until then he's all yours. Try to keep him intact.

Caligula shook his head at the message, amused and annoyed at the same time. So not only was he babysitting the kid now, but he was supposed to teach him anatomy as well? Ridiculous.

Done and done. I'll see if I can scrounge up any material for him tonight, though it is getting late and some advance notice would have been nice.

He knew it was a bit of a stretch to include that last bit, but he also knew that Lear would put up with his snappy remarks, because he was needed. There was no one else better suited to play mother hen to BZRK recruits than he was. The buzz of a reply was almost immediate, and Caligula almost didn't want to read it.

You knew he was initiating today. Prep was your responsibility. Let me know if anything important happens.

And just like that Lear came down, and Caligula was shaking his head again. It wasn't worth getting annoyed over, though, so he closed his phone and stuck it back in his pocket. Now the problem was going to be finding something for Michael to look through. Perhaps he ought to call Grey, see if he had anything dumbed down enough for a sixteen year old about to embark on his first foray into the brain.

Then again he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to look at Grey's face tonight, because he had a feeling it would be full of disappointment and betrayal. Maybe he'd just buy a laptop and hope someone in the area had a wireless network. Then Michael could do his own research.

"Excuse me sir, your order is ready," the man behind the counter called out, and Caligula sighed as he stood up and walked to the cash register. For now he'd just worry about getting Michael fed.

It seemed like no time at all had passed since Caligula had left, but perhaps that was what it was like when you were actually engaged in something? Michael wasn't sure, because he'd never truly been this engaged in anything before. Right now he was leaning over the table, arms folded in front of him, head down, biots facing each other. It was still weird, seeing multiple images at once, but it wasn't all that awkward anymore. He had them facing each other so he could ensure he was learning how to move them properly, because watching yourself do something while looking down was entirely different then watching yourself do something while looking at your reflection in the mirror.

Now he was concentrating on one of them, the one closer to him, that he'd dubbed M1. Granted he wasn't entirely sure how he'd keep track of which one was which – would each biot always appear in the same area in his field of vision? Right now he had them arranged thusly – M1 on his left, M2 on his right, and reality was behind them, but if necessary he would draw it up so it was on top of his biots. He could deal with three screens, he was sure of it.

He heard the door open and close but didn't bother turning around, still engrossed in his biots. He smelled dinner though – and he was surprised to smell curry. "I thought you were getting food from the diner?" He asked without looking or even moving, focused on his biots.

"I had a change of heart," Caligula replied, walking over to the table and setting the bag down.

"Hey watch out!" Micheal yelled, reaching for the bag and pulling it up. "My biots are down there!"

Caligula grinned and took the bag from Michael, putting it back on the table. "Then you'd better move them. You don't want them ending up in your food."

Michael frowned, picking up the bag again and putting his finger down the surface of the table. "Be careful, don't crush them."

Caligula had to laugh at that. "Crush them? With a bag of food? Listen kid, the last thing you need to worry about with your biots is crushing them, they're far too small. And by the way, I wouldn't leave them on your finger, either. You definitely don't want them to end up in your stomach, do you?" He asked, opening the bag and pulling out styrofoam containers.

"As interesting as that would be, no, I can't say that I do want them there." He raised his fingers to his temple, depositing the biots on his forehead. "Shit, that's so weird," he said, seeing his skin up close. It was a vast expanse of pink, almost like a desert. It was a veritable whole new world, really.

"You definitely don't want to end up there, either," Caligula said with a grin, opening both containers and guessing by withering smell alone which one was Michael's.

"Huh?" The teenager asked, too weirded out by his forehead that he drew up his visual of reality instead.

"Shit," Caligula replied, "You definitely don't want your biots to end up there."

Michael was silent for a moment as he processed the old man's joke. In reply he simply shook his head before looking down at the offered container. "This isn't from the diner, is it?" He asked, surprised that Caligula had gone out of his way to get him something spicy.

"Nope," the older man replied, spearing a piece of chicken and bringing it to his nose, smelling. At least it didn't feel like it was melting the hairs in his nasal cavity off. "There's an Indian place two blocks north, I went there."

Michael was grateful, but a little confused. "Why?" He asked, curious.

"I read your file," Caligula replied, "And I saw that the only food you really care for is spicy. I figured today of all days, you deserved something you like."

"I don't really like it," Michael replied, shrugging as he picked up a piece of chicken. "I'd probably hate it if I was normal, you know. I mean, I can feel myself sweating when I eat it, and it makes me cough. But it's better than feeling nothing at all." He popped the chicken in his mouth and felt it immediately – his eyes started watering. But it was a good feeling, at least to someone like him.

Caligula nodded and watched him, on the verge of laughing. The kid's face was red and he could see the tears forming in his eyes and he bet that any second now -

"What the fuck?" Michael yelled, choking down the food in his mouth and hastily raising a hand to his forehead.

Caligula had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. He knew from Pound's comments what was likely going on at the moment. "Is there a problem with your food?" He asked innocently, watching as Michael brought his hand down to the table again.

"Holy shit, it's like... I don't even know how to accurately describe that!" He paused, rubbing his fingers into his eyes and coughing. "It was like my face was a sprinkler, this water was just coming out of nowhere! Well, not out of nowhere, but out of my face! Like, I was standing there, and then all of a sudden there was fucking water underneath me!"

"Ah, you were sweating? Interesting experience."

Michael didn't respond right away, looking down at his food, then suddenly looking up at Caligula. "You fucking knew that would happen, didn't you?" He stared accusingly at the older man. "That's why you got me curry!"

Caligula realized that it probably would seem that way to the kid, but it really hadn't been his intention. "Honestly, that wasn't my intention. I didn't even think about it."

"Bullshit. You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Michael replied, annoyed now.

Caligula laid his plastic fork down and stared at the kid, his eyes serious. "I won't lie, I am enjoying this. But I did not get you Indian food to watch you suffer. You have to believe me, Michael. Don't forget – I don't have biots. I know what sort of experience you go through, I've heard of it all, but I've never experienced it myself, so I don't always think about it. I apologize that it freaked you out, but on the other hand – it's good. You're learning."

Michael didn't agree with his analysis – not at the moment, at least. But he picked his fork up and took another bite of chicken. Lesson learned – the biots would stay in their creche during meal time from now on.


End file.
